


Why Using Healing Magic on a Head Injury Is a Terrible Idea: A Novel by Prompto Argentum

by MagitekUnit05953234



Series: It's Not a Literal Novel [1]
Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Angst, Anxiety, Barely hinted at but worth a tag, Eating Disorder Not Otherwise Specified, He's not really an MT but I give him a slightly different backstory that's close enough, I wrote my own lore the devs can fight me, I'm not a doctor folks, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, In which Prompto literally runs from his problems, Lots of Cursing, M/M, MT!Prompto, Multiple times, POV Second Person, Poor Prompto Argentum, Pre-Altissia, Pre-Relationship, Self Confidence Issues, Speech Disorders, Trans Gladio, Trans Male Character, Xenophobia, chapter 13 spoilers, complete with repressed memories, fake languages, magic injury
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-07
Updated: 2018-05-07
Packaged: 2019-05-03 18:45:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,410
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14575275
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MagitekUnit05953234/pseuds/MagitekUnit05953234
Summary: It is three days before you begin to become concerned.You think there might be something wrong.You can still shoot your gun though, so who cares?(The answer should be you, but it isn't.)





	Why Using Healing Magic on a Head Injury Is a Terrible Idea: A Novel by Prompto Argentum

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so this is my first foray into posting fic in years and let's just say its... very self-indulgent. I even wrote it in second person pov which is probably the most inconvenient thing for anyone but me to read. My apologies.  
> I know that where it cuts off at the end is kinda weird but a sequel is eventually coming so yeah, there's that at least. The relationship tags are what I had in mind for where this would eventually go but if anything this is just kinda pre-relationship. Can definitely be read as platonic if you want.  
> Keep in mind: I refer to Prompto's speaking issue as "aphasia" but honestly it's a magical issue so it's not anywhere near what aphasia is really like. It's just the closest thing he finds to describe what he has going on. Don't use magic drinks to fix a head injury, guys! They can't possibly be that precise. Also, Prompto uses some pretty rough language to refer to his "brain damage." That's not reflective of my own opinions, but are just what I think a guy who already feels like a burden on a good day would think of himself on a bad day.  
> And yeah, I do have a vague fake language written out that I used to write some dialogue in this. There's translations of everything down at the bottom, but if I missed anything let me know.  
> Enough stalling. Let's get on with the show, eh?

It is three days before you begin to become concerned. You know you tend to misplace words but...not like this.

Ignis looks at you with a weird glint in his eyes. He must think you’re stupid. “Are you quite alright, Prompto?”

You mull each word over in your head for a few seconds, wishing that Ignis would say things more plainly. “Yes,” you answer, hoping the delay wasn’t too long. “Sorry! I’m okay.”

“Right,” Ignis’s gaze sweeps over you and you plaster on your best smile. Possible brain damage? No sir! Not here! “Do let me know if that changes.”

“Will do,” you manage, shooting finger guns at Ignis. Gestures come quickly to you. Words do not.

It’s been three days since you pretty much brained yourself on a hunt. You weren’t worried when you woke up, all fixed up with the power of magical energy drinks and pain medication. You didn’t have a concussion and were coherent as could be. You could walk and balance and talk just as well as you ever could before. A check at the Prairie Outpost’s ramshackle medical center determined that you were right as rain.

But now you aren’t so sure. Words aren’t coming out right. Sometimes they don’t come out at all. Sometimes you replace one word for another and you rarely have the luck for that replacement to be a synonym. You look at a thing and suddenly you can’t remember what the word for it is. You forgot the word for grass recently. Stringing more than three words together is tiring.

You think there might be something wrong.

You can still shoot your gun though, so who cares? Getting it checked isn’t worth the money, not when phoenix downs and hi-potions and food and lodging are so expensive. The others need all those things much more than you need the capability to be an annoying chatterbox. It’s fine.

You still have the internet on your phone, somehow. Your data plan will be up in a few days, but for now you spend late nights sneaking looks at sketchy medical websites between rounds of Kings Knight. The websites suggest aphasia. You never heard of it before. You can’t tell which kind you have. You don’t know if you’re going to get better.

Most people need immediate therapy to fix what is wrong. You don’t have that. You have a brain stirred up by a dualhorn’s hit and then tossed back in your skull by Noct’s magic. You have three friends on the run from a war. You have a tent and a gun and a phone that rests heavy in your pocket, undisturbed by calls from parents who may or may not think you are dead. Who may or may not even care.

You flash Ignis another smile in lieu of a parting word as you duck into the tent, laying yourself down to sleep next to Noct, who is already dead to the world. The prince grumbles in his sleep, shifting in his sleeping bag. You turn yourself to face away from him, feeling his warmth emanating into your back. You can’t think of the word for what you feel right now. You think it might be good. You aren’t sure.

Morning comes too quickly for you, but you don’t get up to your usual whining to Ignis before you go on your daily run. You leave the haven with a little wave and lose yourself to the sound of your boots on the ground. This is easy. Running is easy. You aren’t expected to talk when you run. You aren’t expected to do anything but move your feet and breathe.

You hate running, but it’s way easier than it ever used to be. It’s way healthier than some habits you used to keep. So you run.

“Hey, Prompto,” Gladio raises a hand to you as you make your way back up on the glowing rock platform, not missing a beat on his one-armed pushups. “How was the run?”

“Good!” You pull the edge of your shirt away from you, grimacing at the way the sweaty fabric clung to your stomach. You’ll need to change your clothes if you’re going into town today. “It uh...hot. But...fun.”

“I’ll have to join you next time,” Gladio turns himself over and starts on sit-ups, looking perfectly composed. You get tired after ten pushups and winded after thirty sit-ups. Gladio is some sort of low-tier Astral, you think. There’s no other explanation for it.

“Would you mind waking his Highness? We ought to get an early start if we hope to finish our last hunt and return to Old Lestallum today,” Ignis has one hand occupied with a can of Ebony and another with straightening the presentation of breakfast, which is absurdly fancy-looking for being nothing more than oatmeal with dried fruits and added spices.

Rich people are weird.

“I... get her,” you say, turning toward the tent. Gladio snorts, and you crane your neck to look at him. “What?”

“I know I call him ‘Princess’ but I don’t think Noct’s _that_ into it,” Gladio makes no effort to hide his grin.

Oh. You messed up something. You can’t remember what. “Tired!”

This is where shit starts to go wrong quickly.

You wake Noct with some difficulty. Actually, you wake Noct with a  _lot_  of difficulty. He groans and rolls over and flings his arms over his face to avoid the sunlight you’re gleefully letting in from outside.

“What time is it?” Noct asks.

You take a moment. You check your phone. “Eggs.”

“What?”

You repeat yourself, reading the number off the phone. It’s 7 am. Breakfast time. “Eggs.”

“The fuck?”

You ask him what’s wrong. “What cloud?”

That was right. Probably.

“You hit your head or something?” Noct frowns, his tired features melting into a concern that you  _definitely_ don’t want pointed at you. “Shit, you already did. Are you okay?”

You’re not sure what you did, but you need to convince Noct that nothing is up as much as you can. You tell him you’re okay. “It gravy.”

And that’s all. You know it’s wrong. You suddenly want to cry. “It gravy.”

“Uhh…” All hints of lethargy have left Noct’s eyes. He scrambles up, hands hovering as if he wants to touch you, but isn’t sure how. He dithers for a moment, before nearly tripping on his way out the tent. “I think something’s wrong!”

“No!” You grit your teeth and follow Noct out, tugging at the sleeve of his sleep shirt. “No! It...gravy.”

“He isn’t making sense,” Noct gestures at you, drawing Ignis’s attention. “I think hitting his head is finally fucking with him.”

You feel the heat of your friends’ eyes on you and suddenly you feel so  _stupid_. You apparently can’t string a few sentences together and you would rather die than admit just how much losing your words is hurting.

“Not…” you try to find the right thing to say but everything you need is slipping through your fingers. “Not dumb!”

“No one said you were,” Ignis is at your side in a flash, insanely professional even when someone he seems resigned to take care of has apparently lost his fucking marbles. “How long have you been having issues speaking? Since you hit your head?”

Your eyes begin to burn. You nod.

Ignis’s face becomes impossibly soft. “It’s gotten worse over time, then? You were doing well when you first woke up. Have you hit your head again since then?”

You shake your head. This is tolerable.

“Do you understand everything we say?” Ignis asks.

He must really think you’re an idiot. You nod.You remember your difficulty last night though so.... you scrape up what little brain cells you have left to come up with. “Slowly.”

Shame wells within you when Noct’s breath stutters. You dig your phone out of your pocket and pull up your browser history, bringing up the page on aphasia. You hold your phone out to Ignis with trembling fingers, eyes held tightly to the floor.

You finally begin to cry when you feel Ignis take the phone from your grasp. You cover your face with your hands, focusing on the feeling of your nails digging into your temples. Maybe if you dig your brain out again you can fix this.

You feel arms around you, encircling your shoulders and pulling you close. Fuck. Gladio must think you’re useless. You can’t contribute to the group when you can’t talk. You can shoot but it’s not like that’s _hard_. Anyone can pick up a gun and point.

“This isn’t your fault,” Ignis points out in that no-nonsense tone of his. Noctis makes a murmur of assent. You feel Gladio’s arms tighten around you.

You push Gladio away from you, shaking your head. You step away from the group, toward the tent.

“What’s wrong?” Gladio calls after you. You shake your head furiously, going back into the tent.

It’s funny, just how little of the stuff you have is actually yours. Most of the clothes you own were reluctantly accepted gifts from Noct since you couldn’t afford to replace your entire wardrobe when you lost weight. Your camera is yours, but the ridiculously pricey lens was from Ignis on your nineteenth birthday. The leather cuffs adorning your arms are from Gladio, who insisted that the old white-and-green wristband you had looked terrible. The Crownsguard uniform is the Crown’s. You pull the vest from your bag along with all the other things that aren’t yours and fold it. You thank Shiva that you thought to bring your old wristband. You slide it on in the absence of Gladio’s gifts.

You have so little that is actually yours. It will have to do.

You emerge from the tent to the others deliberating over forgotten bowls of oatmeal. You can’t quite hear what they’re saying but you have a good idea.

You barely have any money of your own  ~~and that isn’t new~~  but you dig a ten gil note from your pocket. You should at least pay for the chocobo rental. You tap Noct on the shoulder, and the three turn to you with unreadable expressions. You hold out the note.

“What is this for?” Noct takes the bill and looks at it, as if you’d have written a message on it or something. You swallow and summon your gun. Noct’s eyes widen as you flip it in your hand, offering the grip to him. “The fuck are you doing?”

You push the gun to his chest and release your hold on it, wincing when he doesn’t bother to grab it. It falls to his lap with a muffled  _thump_. “I…”

Shit. This is important. You need to get it together. “Can’t. Can’t…”

You know the word. It’s what you feel every day. You hear it in your head when you try to sleep. You hear it in your head when you trip in the middle of battle. You can get this much out. “Burden.”

You wave an arm out beyond the haven, your bag hanging from your elbow. “Burden! I…”

“Are you fucking  _leaving_?” Noct launches himself up, the haste of his movement knocking his breakfast and  ~~your~~  the gun to the ground. “Why the fuck are you leaving?”

You wish you could talk but if you could you wouldn’t exactly need to be doing this. Probably. “Burden!”

“You’re not!” Noct’s hands grab your shoulders and you start so bad that your bag hits the ground. “You can’t talk. So what? That doesn’t change shit! You can understand us, can’t you? And you can walk and fight and live just as much as you did before?”

You nod hesitantly.

“Then what’s the problem? I want you here! Gladio and Iggy want you here. This is just something we’re gonna have to work through!”

It’s not. It’s different. You can’t express that. You clench your hands into fists and Noct seems to get the picture well enough.

“For fucks sake,” Noct huffs. He points at his legs. “I’ve got a brace. Some days I can’t walk because my knee hurts so bad. Can’t fight. Can’t get out of the tent because my back won’t let me. Am I a burden?”

Never. Noct could never  _ever_  be a burden. He’s perfect. Flawless.

You shake your head frantically.

“Ignis can’t see shit near or far without his glasses, and has had to step out of battle a few times when they get broken. Is he a burden?”

No.

“You know how sometimes we gotta stop Lestallum to get meds when we have no other reason to go there? How sometimes we miss good hunts because we were an hour or two behind from that visit? Is Gladio a burden because we gotta fill his prescription and nowhere’s got it except for Lestallum?”

No. Of course not.

“You’re fucking fine, Prompto,” Noct kneels down at your feet, picking up the gun. “This is probably gonna be hard but we’re not about to turn you out into the fucking wilderness because your mouth things ‘eggs’ is a time. Ifrit’s balls, Prom.”

“Aphasia is not uncommon from magic-healed head injuries,” Ignis steps out of his chair with all the grace of a gazelle and you feel incredibly clunky. “I should have considered it when I noticed you having trouble. There’s nothing physically wrong; it’ll just take time for your speaking capabilities to return.”

You need to know how long it will take. You don’t trust your mouth. Your lips work for a moment and Ignis waits patiently. Your eyes alight on the watch Noct has on, peeking out from the sleeve of his sukajan. You point to your own left wrist, tapping at the top.

“I don’t know how long,” Ignis confesses.

Gladio is being awfully quiet. You’re afraid to look at him, so you don’t. He must agree with you on your usefulness. It’s his job to make sure no harm will come to Noct, and you were already by and large the weakest protector Noct could ever get. Good. Great. At least one person here isn’t  _delusional_.

Noct hands your gun back to you and you trace the word engraved on the barrel. _Calamity_.

“You can’t get away from me that easy,” Noct grins. It doesn’t reach his eyes. “We’ll figure it out, Prom. Nothing’s gotta change.”

“Yes,” you say. It wasn’t the thanks you were hoping to voice but it’s something. Noct looks pleased.

You are ushered to a free chair and given your breakfast. It isn’t really warm anymore but you don’t complain. The others busy themselves with gathering up little bits of camp.

Something touches your wristband and you jerk your arm away, looking up to see an oddly sheepish Gladio. He has the bracelet he once gave you in his hands. “Don’t wanna get going without this,” he offers.

He must have seen all the things you were going to leave behind. You wonder if he is offended. You don’t ask.

You secure the bracelet over your wristband, then slide the cloth out from underneath. With a little tightening, your band now entirely conceals your barcode. Safe. Good.

If Gladio noticed the caution, he doesn’t mention it. He just claps you on the shoulder and goes back to packing up.

The three of them care so much about you. At least, Noct does and the other two follow suit out of duty or something. It’s odd. You ought to be used to it by now but five years of being tentatively cared for by  ~~three people~~  one person doesn’t wipe away an entire life of loneliness and inadequacy.

You wonder why your parents won’t call. They weren’t in Insomnia when it fell, and to their knowledge, you were.

You know the answer, but it still sucks.

Your empty bowl is lifted from your slack hands and is replaced by your phone. Ignis retreats with your dish, his back toward you. “Don’t be ashamed about this. There is nothing you could have done. If you had not taken the hit, Noctis would have. You are doing much more than was ever asked of you, and you are doing it well. Be proud of yourself.”

You know Ignis can’t see a nonverbal response from his position so you drag out the word “okay” from your grey matter.

It comes out kicking and screaming but it comes out and that’s what counts.

Unfortunately, the rest of the day doesn’t go so well. You manage a few words but none of them are even vaguely close to what you mean. The others are patient and reassuring as you stay silent for the most part, unable to offer the usual callouts and songs during battle. You shoot just as well as you ever did but this hunt is exceptionally difficult. Some animals are just damage sponges for the hell of it, apparently. Even Gladio seems out of breath.

You take a deep breath. “Out!”

You catch the eyes of your friends and motion with your free hand for them to move. They do, unquestioningly. Thank Shiva.

You dip your hands into the ether, yanking out Niff weapons from your own personal pocket of Noct’s armory. You make a habit of collecting them from every base you bust, and try not to think of the way they feel better in your hands than any Lucian weapon you’ve ever touched.

You launch a grenade and then few shells at the mokokujata, biting back a cheer as it falls. Its belly is toward the sky, vulnerable. The heaving body flashes violet, crackling with energy only you can see. You learned early on that you see things in battle differently than the others. You don’t mention it.

But you do take advantage.

You whip out Calamity and let it become you. The world dissolves to flashes of purple and yellow and black, and for a moment you don’t need words at all. You are a weapon, and your purpose is eliminating the target. Crackshot.

“Looks like that Niff crap is useful after all,” Gladio grins as you dispel the weapons, inspecting the work you wrought. You remind yourself that he’s talking about your weapons, not you. You give him a shaky thumbs up. “You should use it more. Packs a hell of a bigger punch than your peashooter, as much as I hate to say it.”

“Light,” you screw up your face as you loosely raise your revolver. “No...wrong.”

“It’s fine,” Gladio shrugs. “Use whatever you want.”

Turning in the hunts becomes a problem. You all sit in the Crows Nest, swinging your legs off the edge of your stool. The menu swims in front of you, the words not quite connecting most of the time. They don’t seem to have the stuff you usually get. Even a chain has weird variations outside the Crown City.

“What do you wanna get?” Noct asks.

You breathe out a long sigh and point to a picture of a salad on the front page. It’s probably the appetizer page. You can’t tell and barely care.

“You don’t eat enough,” Noct rolls his eyes at your choice but he puts in the order anyway.

And then it gets quiet.

Now is the time you’d start on a dramatic recounting of something idiotic you did in high school. Now is the time you’d riff on how this food compared to Ignis’s cooking. Now is the time you’d make up a story about how the chef is an Imperial assassin set on taking down Noctis one poisoned vegetable at a time, only to be thwarted by Noct’s discerning palate.

You don’t say a thing and the air grows heavy.

The others, bless them, try hard to not let you fall by the wayside, but gestures only get you so far. Ignis tries to get you to basically play pictionary with a pen and napkin but communicating through art is both frustrating and useless. Eventually Noct just takes the pen and absentmindedly draws masterpieces in the corners of his paper placemat. He always was good at art.

You wonder why he never took a single art class. He would have gotten As easily.

You're just kinda edged out of conversation by the time the day runs out. You find yourself averse to spending the night in silence. Noct left the room a while ago, and you simply can’t keep yourself occupied well enough. You try your best to pass the time without bothering anyone else. You play a few rounds of Kings Knight on muscle memory, not wanting to put in the extra effort to try to read what’s on your screen. You flip through the brochures the motel has provided. You think about turning on the tv, but you know that Ignis sleeps far too light for it to _not_ wake him up, even if it’s muted.

Going up to the roof ends up being a no-brainer. You grab your camera (lens reattached, probably thanks to Ignis) and resolve to take some pictures of the stars.

You don’t expect to find Noct up there. He sits on the edge of the platform, legs dangling. There is something lonely about the way his silhouette cuts out the neon glow of the signs across the street. You take a picture without even thinking of it.

Noct turns at the sound of the shutter and just _looks_  at you for a moment. “Picture’s worth a thousand words, huh?”

“Click,” you reply, settling down beside your friend. He nods as if you’ve said something wise.

“I’m glad you’re here,” Noct says, eyes turning up to the sky above. “I see the way you look sometimes, when you think I’m not looking. Like we’re about to tell you to go home any second.”

Noct tosses a pebble off the roof in a long arc. It pings off something metal down below. “Not like there’s much of a home left to go back to, but you know what I mean.”

You pull your knees in to your chest.

“I don’t want you to leave,” Noct admits. “I uh… for Shiva’s sake… I just… you really scared me today. I thought you were about to leave and it was terrifying.”

Something in you burns. You didn’t mean to hurt him. You thought he’d be better off without you. You just fucked things up even more.

“Sorry,” Noct leans back so his shoulders are pressed flat to the neon sign behind him. He cushions his head with his hands. “I know it’s selfish of me. You’re just the only friend I’ve ever known. I mean, fuck, no that’s not…”

Noct tugs on your arm and you lean down to mirror his semi-prostrate position beside him, tilted to face his side.

“You guys are the only friends I’ve ever had. Gladio and Ignis didn’t get a choice at first and they’ve always been paid to stick around. I know they want to be here; I’m not saying that they don’t. They care about me just as much as I care about them and no one’s around to pay ‘em these days anyway. But you’re the only person who ever treated me as me, and not the future king. You mean so much to me. I never want to see you gone.”

You don’t really have much of a response to that other than tears. You shift so your arm covers your face. Noct keeps his gaze on the stars.

“I’m stupid for unloading all this on you when you can barely reply to me,” he whispers. “I just want you to know how important you are, you know? You’re not a burden on us and we all want you here. I promise. King’s honor.”

His hand finds yours in the dark and you try not to shake as his fingers intertwine with yours. You’ve never really done that before, not with anyone and certainly not with Noct, but you don’t mind it too much. It’s kinda chilly on the roof. The warmth is good.

“Also,” you say. Noct squeezes your hand tighter.

You fall asleep on the roof. It’s not too bad.

Noct whines about how stiff he is the next day, though. He grumbles as Ignis checks the straps of his knee brace and waves away offers to forgo hunting. “It’s fine, guys. Nothing a couple pain meds won’t fix. Leave it! I’m serious.”

It takes three days for you to begin to worry. It takes three weeks for someone to finally snap at you.

It’s Gladio, because who else would it be? Gladio’s entire life revolves around protecting Noct and you’re a liability.

It happens when you turn in a hunt at the outpost outside Ravatogh. Ignis and Noct are at the car, mulling over the pros and cons of taking the same zu hunt over and over for gil. You and Gladio are buying potions.

At least,  _Gladio_  is buying potions. He tried to make you do it but the interaction proved a little much. You can’t get through the general pleasantries of greeting and small talk, much less enunciate requirements for precise amounts of curatives and protective trinkets.

You now stand awkwardly behind him after he finished the transaction, trying not to flinch as he whirls around at you. His eyes are devastatingly empty, and he clutches at your arm with a painful grip. He drags you off out of the little shop and tugs you behind it, shielded (ha) from the people around.

“Are you even _trying_?” Gladio seethes. “It’s been weeks and you haven’t stuck more than three godsdamned words together! You haven’t done shit, just hiding behind whoever is gonna talk for you! Well, I’m not doing it anymore. Not until you make an effort. You need to shape the fuck up.”

“I…” You’re panicking. Words come out worse when you’re panicking. Gladio’s fingers dig tighter into your bicep, just above that stupid bandanna you tied on it. “Lo….”

“What?” Gladio’s face is inches from yours, terribly blank despite the anger in his voice.

“Lo febwoom ak…”

You have fucked it up. Prompto Argentum, you have fucked it up real good.

“Are you fucking kidding me?!” Gladio lets go of your arm, then pushes you hard against the wall of the shop. “You can’t string a couple words together together unless it’s in fucking  _Niff_? How do you even know Niff? What in Bahamut’s asshole is wrong with you?”

It is now that you discover that wordless yelling comes very easy to you. You do quite a bit of it as you hit Gladio in the chest, panicking, trying to get away from him and go to… somewhere. Your wrist burns under the bracelet Gladio gave you.

Ignis breaks the two of you up. He doesn’t even bother giving you a quiet dressing-down like he does to Gladio, just a sharp look as you get back into the car. It’s almost worse.

Gralean comes easier to you than Lucian these days, but you bite those words back as much as possible.

Living in the  ~~slums~~  refugee district in Insomnia gave you the opportunity to learn a lot of different languages. What the residents lacked in money, they made up for in spades with diversity. You were easily accepted as part of the big melting pot with your obvious foreign origins. No Lucian was as fair-haired and freckley as you.

You learned snatches of a lot of languages, but Gralean was the one that stuck with you the most. It earned you nothing but judgement from your classmates, and you never brought out a hint of the language when you were around Noct. You left it off your Crownsguard recruitment forms. Speaking it seemed like treason in the Citadel.

And now Gladio is going to bite your godsdamn head off for it.

It takes another week after the incident outside the Ravatogh mart for Ignis to pointedly ask if you have been doing the speaking exercises he provided you. You burst into frustrated tears and he goes back to cooking. Somehow his silence feels more condemning than anything else.

You move to stand beside Ignis, tapping your fingernails on the edge of his cooking station to grab his attention. His eyes rise from the pan to meet yours.

You want to help. You want to be useful. You want to do something. Anything. “Gawoom?” You point at the pan.

Fuck. Gralean again.

Ignis, to his credit, schools his features into a very careful lack of surprise. “Vo sin het.”

You didn’t know he knew the language. It only makes sense though, in retrospect. He is Noct’s advisor, after all.

“What…” You breathe out. Lucian this time. You have to do this. “What you…me… sru?”

It’d have to do.

“You can get out the dishes,” Ignis motions to the sturdy plastic cabinet underneath the cooking stove. “The actual cooking portion is nearly finished.”

You get out the plates and set them on the little countertop carefully, holding your breath when they plunk down a little too hard.

“Would you prefer I speak in Gralean?” Ignis asks as he artfully places the toadsteak drumsticks on the plates, accompanied by lemon wedges. “You have been dropping words from it lately. You seem to take to it better than Lucian as of now, and the last thing I want is for you to struggle.”

“No,” you bite at your bottom lip, teeth catching on chapped skin.

“Alright,” Ignis offers you a lemon slice deemed too thin to serve and you take it, stripping the peel and popping it in your mouth. You aren’t particularly fond of the taste but you’ve snacked on lemons and limes since you were young. The taste put you off eating, which was a blessing in middle school. Perhaps a curse. Depends on how you feel about yourself that day.

Ignis can’t possibly know that detail, but he does know that you tend to snatch lemon wedges from his cooking station sometimes. You aren’t about to turn away a gift when it’s given.

“Th…” You clear your throat. “Tha…”

The word was so close to the tip of your tongue but it’s flown away into the stupid tar pit that is your skull, bogged down with your idiotic brain injury. You really haven’t been trying hard enough.

“You're welcome,” Ignis finished fiddling with his food presentation and steps back, inspecting his work with a critical eye. “Would you mind fetching Gladio and Noct for dinner? Noct said there was a good location for fishing a ways to the east. I believe Gladio went along.”

“Hwai,” you stretch your hands above your head, feeling your back pop. “....okay.”

“Before you go,” Ignis turns to face you. “If I may sate some foolish curiosity: how did you learn Gralean?”

Your mouth tastes like iron suddenly. You feel cold. “S...slums. No… sleep.”

“Apologies,” Ignis sounds somewhat embarrassed, somehow. “I forgot you lived in the refugee district. It’s only natural that you picked up some things. You ought to have put something like that on your Crownsguard forms. A fluency in a foreign language is a great asset to the Crown.”

“Not good,” you say, checking the lacing on your boots before you set off.

“If you insist.”

You do.

You find Gladio and Noct sitting on a rickety dock extending into a deep pond. Noct has a fishing pole in his hands, but he hasn’t cast out a line. He’s just sitting.

Gladio is reclined a few feet from Noct, a book in one hand. His fingers are tucked in to keep the page as he watches you approach.

“Glass,” you point toward the haven with one hand, the other planted carefully casually on your hip. “Food.”

“Thanks,” Gladio rises from his position on the deck and flicks Noct on the back of the head. “Time to go, princess.”

“Right,” Noct heaves himself to his feet with all the grace of a lethargic garulessa and sends his fishing equipment back to the ether. “How’s it going, Prom?”

“Good,” you give a thumbs up to emphasize, even though you aren't feeling particularly great. “Did a… single. Ki fur. Hunt.”

“Nice,” Noct doesn’t seem to register the two Gralean words that slip out. Maybe he thinks it's gibberish. He reaches out a hand to you as he goes by and you tap wrists. “What’d you hunt?”

You see the flans perfectly in your minds eye. They were in a cave, which sucked, but they were weak and you wanted to contribute money somehow. “Dessert.”

“Gross,” Noct’s nose wrinkles in that way it does when he’s purposefully whining over nothing. “Hate mushy stuff.”

You nod in a form of agreement, feeling Gladio’s eyes boring into the back of your head. It’s not as easy to ignore as you’d like.

Things are tolerable until they’re not.

You’re staying for a few days in Lestallum. Noct was poisoned by a killer wasp and is taking it easy at the Leville for a while. Poison always made him sick to his stomach, even if an antidote removed any actual danger.

You wander the streets on your own, drinking in the sounds of the city. It’s not Insomnia, nothing will ever be Insomnia, but civilization is comforting. You fiddle with the end of your vest as you walk, fingers tracing over the worn denim. It’s a good vest. Comfortable and easy to...

Someone takes hold of the damn vest. You’re grabbed by the back and pulled into a particularly dark alley. The Astrals must have it out for you.

You have training on how to get away from attackers but it all goes out the window. Your arms are grabbed and you are slammed back into a brick wall. A woman glares at you with all the force that her mildly drunk eyes can offer which is… a lot.

“Where did you get that,” she hisses, nails sinking into your tricep.

“Wh… wha…”

“The fucking uniform!” The woman slams one arm across your throat and pulls on your vest with her newly free hand. “Have you Niffs not taken enough from us? Are you grave robbing our own, too?”

You scrabble at the arm planted across your trachea with little success. “I’m….Crownsgua…”

“No, you’re not,” the woman’s arm presses deeper into your neck. “I know everyone in the Crownsguard. You’re not one. For fucks sake, you look fifteen. We don’t let  _kids_  in. Especially not a fuckin’  _Niff_  like you. If you wanted to steal from corpses maybe you shoulda stolen from a Glaive. At least it’d be more  _believable._ ”

“I’m Crownsguard!” You are thankfully able to spit that out, but the woman is unconvinced. She laughs in your face, one hand clutching hard at your vest. Her own clothes are Crownsguard uniform. Shit.

“If you’re Crownsguard,” the woman grounds out. “Why not give me a nice salute, Niff? Oughta know the words, too.”

You nod. You know the words. They’ve been seared into your skull. You could probably say them in your sleep.

The woman’s grip on you is loosened a little, enough for you to move your arms. You move to hold your fist over your heart.  _For King and Crown. For King and Crown. For King and Crown. Fuck, I don’t wanna die._

Your brain has decided it’s closed for the day. You open your mouth and suddenly the only thing you can do is hold your fist against your chest. The words aren’t coming.

“That’s what I thought,” the woman slaps you across the face, a heavy backhand. Her fingers are adorned with rings. Hell is real and Ifrit holds court in a sweltering, gross alleyway in Lestallum. You’re stiffer than a board, tears springing to your eyes, and the woman (former Crownsguard??) takes advantage of your shock to peel you out of your vest, quick as a flash. For a daytime drunk, she’s ridiculously coordinated. “Fuck, you took an entire uniform? Have you no shame?”

“Not….Niff!” You lunge off the wall to take your best back but are easily overpowered. The woman doesn’t even look like she’s trying. “Lo ik Lucis!”

“If you wanted to convince me, maybe you should have laid off the Gralean,” the woman is pulling at your tank top now, trying to get it over your head. All you can think is  _what the fuck is she seriously undressing me in broad daylight_  and  _don’t let anyone see me_.

Something in your mind kickstarts, and you push the woman away. “Nyo! I’m…. I’m Crownsguard!”

The woman makes a new move for your shirt but you grab her arm and try to bend her hand back. She’s too strong for that to really work, but she’s also too drunk to not lose her balance. You plant your hands on her chest and  _push_  and she topples over.

Fuck yeah. You scramble to grab your vest and book it out the alley on shaking legs. You nearly pull it on but settle for clutching it in one hand as you run through the streets, no destination in mind except for  _away_.

You end up yet another alley, this time vaguely in the vicinity of the EXINERIS plant. Lestallum’s nothing but alleys, apparently. You miss Insomnia.

You slide down to the ground, back against a damp wall. You rest your forehead on your knees, trying to ignore the way your entire face just kinda aches. You lay your vest across your head, blocking out the sunlight that’s suddenly blinding.

You could probably fall asleep like this if you just sat there for a while…

You’re woken from your slumber by the rising sun and your furiously ringing phone. You dig the thing out of your pocket, staring at the screen with sleep-blurred eyes.

 _My Hero Noct_ , it reads.

You answer the call with shaking hands and press the phone to your ear.

“Prompto!” The prince’s voice is horribly hoarse, grinding over the syllables. “Where the hell are you? You’ve been gone for a day! Are you okay?”

“I…” You could just die right about now. “Sk...sky...”

“Where are you?” Noct’s voice is a little more frantic now. “Tell me where you are. I’ll come get you. Don’t move.”

You can see the power plant if you crane your neck. You tell him. “Me-teor.”

“The entire city is by the meteor!” Noct is practically yelling into his receiver now. You drop the phone. The screen shatters on the ground.

You’re too tired to move, so you don’t.

“What happened to you?” Your head is being pulled back, your chin tilted to the sun. You crank open an eye to see Gladio, his hands gently inspecting your battered face. “Good morning.”

“Hi,” you rasp.

“Noct’s gonna kill you when we get back,” Gladio informs you helpfully. “If I don’t first. Did you get mugged or something?”

You shrug, not really having the words to summarize being mistaken for a Niff, a graverobber, and a Crownsguard impersonator.

“Come on,” Gladio tugs you to your feet, aggravating the bruises that are blooming purple-red above your bandana. “If you aren’t going to talk to me you better me able to talk to Noct. I don’t think he’s take silence for an answer.”

Suddenly it comes to you. You wanna laugh, a bitter acidic laugh that crawls in your throat, but instead you just whisper. “For King and Crown.”

Too late, but it’s fine.

“What was that?” Gladio pulls you through the streets with a hand tight on your shoulder, which is probably  _also_  bruised from being slammed into a wall. You don’t complain.

“King and Crown,” you repeat. This you can get right.

Gladio nods. “Yeah. Alright, kid.”

Noct just about kills you when he sees you, launching himself out of his hotel bed and hugging you so tight it hurts.

You catch if a glimpse of yourself in the mirror over the armchair and it’s not good.

Your face is more purple than pale, especially where the woman’s rings had stuck your cheekbone. Your neck isn't looking too good either. Blood has dried below your nose, flaky and dark. The  ~~abnormal~~  usual red rims around your eyes are especially stark.

You turn your eyes toward Noct, who is currently ranting over how stupid you were to go off alone and how much you worried him.

“Sorry,” you wring your wrists. “I didn’t… Sky…”

Ignis brings you a potion, eyeing your face cooly. “You can’t be comfortable.”

You wave away the curative, wincing as your shoulder is pulled. “It fine. My… lo buyip.”

“I heavily doubt you managed to deliver a backhand to your own face,” Ignis retorts, taking your hand and closing it hard around the potion bottle with his own. Icy cold relief drips through you, followed swiftly by frustration. Why can’t you ever just say what you need to?

“My buyip!” You insist, holding up your vest as if it explained anything at all. “Im akwoom. Lo buyip. Nyo Lucian. Fuck.”

So, you can still curse. That’s fun. At least you have that. The longest statement you can string together is in the words of your enemy but at least you can say fuck.

Ignis sighs, a long sort of defeated exhale. Noct and Gladio just look at you with eyes ranging from mostly uncomprehending to entirely uncomprehending.

“Sin pae,” Ignis offers, taking your vest from your hand and inspecting it. “Sin do nyosham bumit. Akori vas on?”

Gralean was easier than Lucian but that didn’t mean it was easy. Noct and Gladio’s clear discomfort wasn’t helping. “He yishionfur. Kenfur. Crownsguard. Kenwoom. Yi thought… onmoor thief. Grave thief. Lym vest...fuck… uniform. Kenwoom lo. Because...uh… im Crownsguard. Opt Niff artonfur.”

Ignis turned your words over for a minute before turning to Noct. “I’d recommend you stay with Prompto. I have to make a call. Come on, Gladio.”

“What for?” Noct asked to Ignis’s retreating back. “What are you guys talking about?”

“Sorry,” you pick at your bracelets, watching the other two duck out of the suite. “Stupid… can’t. Talk.”

“It’s fine,” Noct guides you down to the edge of the hotel bed and sits beside you. “Where’d you learn Niff?”

“Slums,” you shrug. “Live...meet people.”

“Slums…” Noct echoes. “Is that why you wouldn’t let me go to your apartment, ever?”

Your silence was as good as a yes to Noct. His jaw clenches.

“Astrals, the school’s gotta be like fifteen miles from there. The arcade’s in the opposite direction. You walked that every day?”

“Yeah.”

“Sweet fucking Shiva, Prompto. You didn’t have to do that. I could have come over. Ignis could have driven you home.”

“I did,” you shrug again.

“I could have bought you a whole new apartment closer to the school,” Noct leans into your side. “You could have stayed at my place. You just had to say something.”

“That’s a problem,” you laugh a little, despite yourself. “Now.”

You sit in silence for a moment.

“Man,” Noct grimaces. “You know what the worst part about this is?”

“What?”

“You haven’t said my name. Or any of ours, really. Don’t know why that sucks so bad, but I miss it,” Noct confesses. “It must suck. To know what everyone is saying and not being able to respond to it. Not really.”

“Yeah,” you breathe out. No one has really said that to you. It’s almost refreshing. “I wish...sing. Bird.”

Noct glances at you, clearly confused but not wanting to voice it.

You hum the little tune, quietly. “I want to…cho...I want…”

Noct grins. He presses a finger to your lips, and you take that to mean he wants you to shut up. He shakes his head. “Keep humming.”

You start up the tune again and Noct’s smile is practically audible when he warbles out “I want to ride my chocobo all day, from Leide to Caem’s bay, they’ll always lead the way!”

You want to sing along. You desperately want to sing along. “I want to ride my… chocobo… ent sol… ik Leide woom… shit.”

“Is there a Niff version of it?” Noct stops his hum-based accompaniment. “Didn’t think there would be. You can sing that. If it’s easier.”

“There isn’t.” You give yourself a few seconds. “Just. Brain thinks… better. Gralean.”

“I never learned it,” Noct snorts. “Gralean. Ignis was supposed to teach me but I hated it so much I just started tuning him out whenever he tried. I knew I’d need it when I became king but I didn’t wanna think about it. I probably would have bothered learning it if you told me you knew it, though.”

“Why?”

“I like knowing the things you’re into,” Noct grins. “I tried photography, y’know. Tried to get one of the Crown photographers to teach me how to do it right. It didn’t go well.”

“You’re good at,” you mime drawing with a pen. “Y’know?”

“Writing? Art?” Noct frowns, fingers twitching at the idea. “Drawing?”

“Yeah.”

“Just a hobby. Uh, they took away all my stuff once, before we met. I was thirteen or so. They thought I’d focus on prince stuff more if I didn’t have video games or television or anything. I started drawing to stop being bored. Got into painting, too. Watercolors, acrylics. It was cultured, so it was tolerated,” Noct sends you a lopsided grin. “I never did get into the prince stuff. They gave up after three months when I used more than a few reports as canvas instead of reading material.”

“That’s…you,” you wave a hand. “Very you. Sky.”

“Sky?” Noct repeats.

You nod, pointing at his chest. “Sky. Night. You.”

“Oh, shit,” a pause. “That my name?”

Unfortunately. You can’t seem to spit out anything better. “...yeah.”

“I like it,” Noct absentmindedly rubs at his knee. “What about Iggy and Gladio?”

“Glass aud.. um, and uh… Dorowshick.”

“Oh,” Noct grimaces. “That sounds like a Niff word. Bet he doesn’t like it.”

“It’s... easy. Me. But no. Don’t use it,” you shrug.

“What’s it mean?”

You hold your arm in front of you, forearm bent across your chest.

“Yeah, I’ll need more than that,” Noct says. “Sorry.”

You dig around in Noct’s arsenal for a second, feeling your fingers close around an unfamiliar strap. You tug and an old, battered shield has manifested on your arm. It’s heavy, but you manage to hold it up.

“Oh,” Noct grins, reaching out to touch the slightly warped metal. “He might like  _that_. Even if it is in Niff. And Specs is ‘Glass’ because of the specs?”

“Yeah.”

The door to the suite opens back up and Ignis returns looking positively harried. You dispel the shield as quick as you can, though you’re sure he noticed it. Ignis never misses anything.

“The Marshall swears he didn’t even know Crownsguard Deicio made it out of Insomnia, much less was going on drunken rampages against fellow Crownsguard members in the street,” Ignis throws up his hands. “He said he’s going to take care of it and offers his apologies on behalf of the Crownsguard.”

“Wait, what?” Noct half-rises from his seat. “What happened?”

“Crownsguard Deicio, in her alcohol-laden wisdom, mistook Prompto for a Niflheimian refugee who stole a Crownsguard uniform from a fallen soldier,” Ignis scoffed, his contempt shockingly clear. “She did not take to his inability to recite the salute well.”

“King and Crown,” you impulsively blurt out. “Couldn’t. Before. Now. King and Crown.”

“She should be stripped of her rank!” Noct stands the rest of the way up and seems to have no plan of what to do now that he’s upright. His hands clench into fists at his sides. “She should be… I don’t know. She hurt Prompto!”

“She physically assaulted a fellow Crownsguard member and a Crown Citizen,” Ignis has composed himself once again, but his voice is a little too far on the side of gentle to be normal. “She will be dishonorably discharged from Lucis’ military, as much as that means these days. The Marshall is taking care of it as we speak.”

“Good,” Noct turns toward you. “Are you okay? Are you good? She didn’t do anything else, did she?”

“Took my vest,” you point at where it lays on the other side of the bed. “Tried to take… more. Because thief. Me.”

You point to your tank top, which seems to be tearing a little at the seam under your right arm. “Held this. Uh… grand. Grand… grabbed. Grabbed this. Pull.”

“She tried to  _take off your clothes_?”

“Not…” you touch your tank top. “Not like… bad. Take back. Like. From thief. Not bad.”

Gladio returns from the opposite side of the room, where he was apparently rummaging around in your bag. He holds out a towel and a set of your clothes to you. “Go take a shower. Get cleaned up. Iggy’ll fix your uniform. Head high, Crownsguard.”

“Right,” you accept the clothes and tilt your chin up. “King and Crown.”

“King and Crown,” Gladio repeats.

You feel gross, when you take a shower. The potion fixed up the bruises and whatever was messed up with your shoulder but you still feel the sting of Deicio’s jewelry. You don’t look down as you wash yourself, but eventually in the extra minutes you give yourself to sit in the shower you look.

You feel a little grosser, so you end your shower a little quicker than usual. You never did like the look of your stretch marks, no matter what progress cheerful posts on the internet said they represent.

You feel clean, at least. That’s important. Sleeping in an alley is not great for your hygiene.

You pull on the clothes, thankful for the soft material of the grey pants. You wish you had something with sleeves, but the red tank top and leather vest will have to be enough. You tuck your chin into the high collar for a moment, staring it yourself in the mirror. You look like a little adamantoise, with your head pulled into your shell.

It’s kinda funny.

You exit the bathroom with your chin tucked in, laughing. When Ignis levels you with a quizzical look, you hunch in even further. “Adamantoise! Me.”

“I suppose I see the resemblance,” Ignis returns to his notebook with a small grin.

Hell yeah. The happy-go-lucky jokester is back.

“Might wanna put on some muscle if you’re aspiring to become a mountain,” Gladio adds from his spot on the armchair, sprawled out in a perfect picture of comfort.

You mime lifting barbels with raised eyebrows and Noct laughs.  _Perfect_.

“Nuh uh,” Noct waggled a joking finger at you. “We’ve only got room for one musclehead. If you start swinging a greatsword around I’m tapping out.”

“Just w-watch,” you flex your arms, exaggerating a prideful look. “These guns… shoot… uh,” you falter. “Woom uh… onmorshi?”

“Shoot to kill,” Ignis translates, not looking up from his notebook. His free hand rises in  _holy shit_  a finger gun, which he fires in your direction. It drops. Ignis is absolutely straight-faced.

You almost fall over from how hard you laugh.

You feel normal, for a moment.

You fuck things up a couple weeks later.

You’re absentmindedly sorting your things in the armory, separating grenades from snacks and notebooks and spare pairs of shoes. Your things are spread out on the stone of the haven below you, lit by the weird blue glow of the runes.

You pull an unfamiliar white bag out of the armory. It’s paper, like a lunch bag, and there’s a receipt stapled to it. It has Gladio’s name on it, on the top. After a moment’s deliberation, you decide to snoop.

Woah, hey. The bag is full of syringes. What the hell?

The needles all have caps on them, which is good. You dig around and find a vial full of golden liquid in the bottom.  _Testosterone cypionate_ , the label reads.

“Dorowshick!” You call out, holding up the vial, full of  _steroids_  because of course no one could get a body that perfect without something like that. “Muscles! Cheater!”

Gladio looks up from his phone and launches himself toward you at record speed. “What are you doing with that?”

The genuineness of his anger startles you and you almost drop the vial. Gladio catches it just above the ground, and holds it gingerly. He snatches the bag from you and tucks the vial back in, sending it all to the ether.

“Don’t mess with that,” Gladio’s muscles stiffen and you think he might punch you, but he takes a deep breath and relaxes a little. “It’s a prescription, Prompto. I’m not a juicer. I have to have it. It’s what we go to Lestallum for every once in a while.”

“What… for?” It’s a little unnerving to have Gladio looming over you like that, so you busy yourself with storing all your stuff.

“My body doesn’t really make its own testosterone,” Gladio sits down heavily in front of you. “It prefers estrogen instead. Do you know what I mean?”

Oh shit. Yeah. You know exactly what he means.

“Shop is good.”

Gladio quirks an eyebrow, a little bewildered.

“If you… can’t make. Shop... Store. Bought is good,” you quote something you saw online once. “T… you know?”

Gladio scratches at the back of his head. “This has to be the weirdest reaction I’ve gotten to this, yet.”

“I… get it,” you pat Gladio’s giant bicep. “Not ent. Uh, all. Not all. But I… boys? Like. Boys good. So.”

“You couldn’t keep your eyes off Cindy,” Gladio points out with an eyeroll. “Infatuated.”

You flash a nervous grin. “Over… uh. Over comp…? Closet. Lots of prai. Respect?”

“Don’t gotta compensate for shit,” Gladio stretches, his muscles rippling under his tattoos. “None of care. Obviously I don’t. Iggy neither. Noct’s a mystery but he never minded us.”

You nod. “You’re a good man. Really. Could never… be girl. Uh. Words. You know?”

“Yeah,” Gladio nods. “Thanks.”

A pause.

Gladio punches your arm. Wow, that’s a hard punch. A  _really_  hard punch. Astrals, does he have iron embedded in his knuckles?

“Don’t go digging through my stuff again,” Gladio grouses. “If you see something with my name on it, put it back.”

“Right,” you nod. “Sorry. I won’t. Opt. Sorry, Dorowshick.”

“It’s fine,” Gladio pats his knees, a weird little beat. “I asked Noct why you call me that. Door...owchick? It means ‘shield,’ doesn’t it? In Niff?”

“Yes,” you mime swinging a blade, then let your arm stop in midair, shuddering. “It… like. Make sword...stop. Sleep. Dorwoom. Yeah?”

“You should teach me some Gralean sometime,” Gladio stands. “I know I reacted badly to it but… it’s useful. I shouldn’t have blown up at you about it. You couldn’t help growing up in the slums and all.”

“Can barely...talk. Lucian or… Niff. Stupid. Ask Glass,” you tap your temples, then brush away your bangs. “Bad brain.”

“You’re not stupid,” Gladio ruffles your hair, pushing your unstyled bangs back into your eyes. “Not before and not now. I know we always gave you a hard time but we didn’t mean it.”

“No As,” you push away Gladio’s hands, trying again to adjust your hair. “Bad in… learning. Learning place.”

“School,” Gladio laughs. “Well, we can’t all have three degrees by nineteen like Iggy.”

“No!” You glance over at Ignis’s cooking station as if he is about to suddenly appear at the sound of his name. He’s off with Noct somewhere. “Three?”

“Had four by the time he left college,” Gladio confirms. He looks toward the sky for a moment. “Prompto, you know you’re getting better, right? Sure, you’re throwing a lot of Niff in there, but you’re talking a lot more. That’s way better than where you were at first. I can’t pretend to understand what it’s like, but you’re working through it. Without a doctor and whatever else you should have for this.”

“It’s magic,” your face burns a little. “It goes when it goes. I don’t… it is. It goes. I don’t do it.”

“Take some credit for once,” Gladio clears his throat. “I hear you doing those exercises Ignis gave you, late at night. When you’re on watch. Or when I’m on watch. You’d think you don’t sleep.”

“They’re… hard.” You drum your fingers on the haven floor. “I know words. But… somewhere. Talumar… my head. You know? They’re gone. I talk. Can’t even say all your name. Sky and Glass and Dorowshick.”

Gladio taps your shoulder. “Have you said your own name? Since all this.”

“I don’t normally.”

“Sure you do,” Gladio holds his hands in front of his face, making his fingers into a square. He raises the pitch of his voice to a squeak. “Prompto Argentum, photographer extraordinaire, at your service!”

“I don’t… talk like that,” your voice cracks because of course it does.

“So?” Gladio spreads out his hands. “Have you?”

“Nyo.”

“Go for it.”

“Pr…” It’s your own name. Fuck! It’s your own name! Just spit it out! “P...p… shit.”

“What is your name?” Gladio asks. Something in you clicks into place.

“Emp fu sih fu bin meg bin gen,” the numbers flood out without a hitch. You know those numbers. You  _know_  those numbers. You’ve never said them aloud. Not in Lucian. Not in Gralean. Haven’t you? You haven’t. No. Yes. You can never forget them. Not when they’re inked into your wrist.

“What?” Gladio glances down at you. “The fuck does that mean?”

You can’t breathe. You scramble up from the ground. Gladio reaches for you and you push his arm away. You stumble over to the edge of the haven and drop down to the ground below.

“Prompto! What’s wrong?”

“Sru lo...ikiwoom!” You forgo any attempts at Lucian. What’s the point? “Gintiki lo!”

You are vaguely aware of Gladio following you as you flee, cursing. You ignore his pleas for you to stop, eventually bursting into a run. You can’t breathe. You can run. You were always good at running.

You hate running.

Your mouth tastes like metal.

You run in the wrong direction like a complete fool. You ran toward the road, rather than away from it. The Regalia is on its way back from wherever Noct and Ignis went. They have to have seen you from the car. You skid on your heel and turn to the side so you won’t cross the road and keep moving, opposite the direction Ignis was driving. You can't stop running, not now that you’ve started.

You can’t stop crying.

You’re broken as hell.  

You hear the Regalia brake hard and the doors slam. Gladio is saying something, loudly. You ignore it all. One two, one two. Keep running.

Your chest aches. Your calves hurt. You didn’t stretch.

Blue light flashes in your path. You try to avoid it but run directly into Noct’s arms. He’s yelling something in your face but you can’t focus on it. He’s clutching hard at your arms. You’re still crying.

“Just fucking… breathe, for Shiva’s sake… Prompto, breathe like me, okay? Slow?”

You can’t breathe. Air feels like water in your chest, your nose, your mouth. Everything smells like disinfectant and iron. Your stomach clenches. Who are you? Why can’t you speak Lucian? Why can’t you speak at all? Why does everyone look like you?

Who are you?

Who are you?

What are you?

05953234

You remember. You can’t speak. You can’t breathe. You can’t move.

You remember.

How old are you?

Six years? Seven? Not old enough to see the sun. Not old enough to see the sky. Not yet.

Why does the sky stand in front of you?

Words are easy. Words are forbidden. They flow from you. You are outside. You are already going to be decommissioned. You speak. They can't do anything worse to you. “Lo het hunmoor im. Lo het hunmoor im. Lo het hunmoor im.”

You shake. The hands on you hold tighter. The words you don’t understand are louder. You yell over them. You want them to  _know_ . You want them to  _know_  what you want. You’ve never been allowed to  _want_. “Lo het hunmoor im! Lo het onmoor im! Lo…”

The grounds comes up very quickly, and the hands don’t catch you before you fall.

The next thing you know, you’re laying in a tent. Noct sits beside you, asleep. He’s slumped over against a pile of blankets, his phone hanging loosely from one hand, the Kings Knight game over screen clear on the display.

You sit up, rubbing at your eyes. The whole world feels a little too bright. You draw your right hand across your face and… oh.

Why the hell have they let Noct sleep in the same tent as you?

Your wrist is clear of everything except a tattoo crisscrossed by a myriad of old scars.

They know.

Somehow, this isn’t really that scary anymore. They’ll throw you out if you’re lucky, and isn’t that what you’ve prepared for all along?

Didn’t you try to leave like a month or two ago?

Didn’t you try to leave last time you were awake?

Yeah.

Idiot.

“Shit, Prom,” Noct’s voice shocks you out of your spiral and you turn to look at him, slamming your right wrist down against the covers. Maybe… maybe he didn’t see? “You’re up. Are you okay? Can you talk? Can you hear? You fell and I don't think you hit your head but I don't  _know_.”

“...hi,” you manage.

Noct grins and pulls you into a hug. “I’m so glad you’re okay. You didn’t even like, recognize me yesterday? How could you possibly cast such a horrible blow on my ego? The prince has gotta be seen!”

You lock up in the embrace. “Um… Sky…”

“Yeah?” Noct draws back. “What, Prom?”

“Why are you…” your brain is fuzzy. “You’re...here. Allowed to. Here. Why?”

“Why am I… allowed to be here?” Noct echoes. “Why wouldn’t I be? It’s our tent.”

You hold your wrist up to Noct’s eye level, averting your own gaze. “Owhunkenfur. Me. MT.”

“I have no idea what that first word was,” Noct takes hold of the offered wrist and you flinch. “But those two last words don’t belong together at all.”

“I’m an MT,” you reiterate. “I’m made. In facility. I… forgot. I had code. I didn’t… know. Not… pae.”

“You’re not an MT,” Noct leans in, and traces your brand with a gentle fingertip. “I never really talked about it because it made me feel sick and uh… I never knew it was relevant. But like twelve years ago Cor and a bunch of Glaives infiltrated Gralea and brought back a bunch of kids.”

Something in you  _twists_. You’re suddenly hanging onto Noct’s every word. He  _knew_  what you shut away in your mind all this time? What you forced yourself to forget and imagine was all nightmares?

“The kids,” Noct’s face screws up. “They were MTs in training, apparently. More like human experiments. They were pretty messed up, I heard. But they got better and then they all mysteriously disappeared into the foster system. Probably Cor’s doing, honestly. I never asked. But all of them had barcodes, y’know. Like you.”

You shiver at the feeling of your brand being touched.

“Whatever happened wasn’t your choice. And you were brought out before they could make you into what they wanted. What matters is who you are now, not whatever they wanted you to be.”

“I was…” You click your tongue. The sight of Noct’s fingers against black ink was strangely comforting and terrifying all at once. “I was defective. I wasn’t going to be... a uh…complete MT. In the end. Not strong enough.”

You flex the arm in Noct’s grip. “I don’t remember… going. From the facility. Leaving? But I was… hunmor. Going to.”

“Going to what?” Noct’s nail catches on the raised scars across your barcode.

“Uh…” you tug your arm back and fumble for the right word. “De… ki… uh.”

You eventually just make a finger gun and point it at your temple for a moment before dropping it. “Hunmor. They were going to. End… me? Because defective.”

“Shit,” Noct grabs your hand again. “I’m glad Cor got you out.”

“Wish I...knew. It’s all...blur. Haven’t known in a lot. Years. Didn’t want to think. Then just, lost it all?” You shrug. “Gl...buh, Dorowshick. Asked my name. Gave code. Number. Made it...not dream. Real again.”

“Your number?” Noct points to one numberset on your brand. “This?”

“No,” you point to the other string of numbers instead. “This was me. Emp fu sih fu bin meg bin gen. Me. Made… code. Making code. Making me code.”

Noct looks at it intently for a moment then places three fingers over the barcode, obscuring it completely. “Well, it’s not you. Never has been. You’re Prompto. That’s the important part of you. Who cares where you come from, anyway?”

“Thanks...Sky,” you let yourself lean into Noct’s touch. “And Glass? Dorowshick? They’re not...hate?”

“Gladio didn’t deal with it well but Ignis already had his suspicions so he talked Gladio through it.”

“Glass  _suspected_?” You can’t help but feel incredulous at that. How could Ignis have known and not  _said anything_?

“Yeah,” Noct smiled. “But he was smart enough to know that there was nothing wrong with you and that you were just as much a Lucian as I am. Crown Citizen, yeah?”

“So...Dorowshick not… hate? Me?” It seems a little too good to be true.

“No way,” Noct shifts his hand back around so he’s holding your hand again. It’s nice. “He’s actually pretty mad. Ready to bust a base. He said you were one of the only things the Empire hadn’t messed with yet, and turns out they messed with you way before they ever got their hands on us. He’s uh… wanting to knock some Niff heads.”

You stare at Noct’s fingers, tangled in your own.

“It’s funny, how your word for Gladio is way more complicated than ‘Gladio.’ You sure like making things as hard on yourself as possible.”

“My talent,” you shift in your sleeping bag, suddenly aware of just how warm the thing is. “Where is he? Them? Both of them?”

“Outside. Wanted to give you privacy. Thought you might run again if you got too freaked out.”

You want to see them. You need to know, to be sure that they aren’t waiting to tear away this peace and call you traitor. “Can you… outside. Bring them? Or I go out?”

“Can you stand?” Noct starts to rise, pulling your hand with him.

“Yes,” you say as if you’re sure. Hindered by Noct’s possession of one of your arms, you manage to worm your way out of the sleeping bag in decent time. You stand. Good.

You’re admittedly teary-eyed when you emerge from the tent and nothing’s changed. Ignis greets you from his chair beside the fire and Gladio hands you your wristband, which has new stitching in black thread from one end to the other. Gladio says Noct accidentally ripped it off you. You don’t bother asking when.

“I am thinking of making meat and beet boullion for dinner,” Ignis says. “I have all the supplies, but I did want to take your opinion into account.”

It’s one of your favorites. Noct pulls a face at the mention of beets. You readily offer your endorsement for the meal.

It tastes good, the food. It almost drowns out the taste of your metal spoon. You weren’t bothered by that sort of thing before.

Remembering isn’t good. It isn’t fun.

Every once in a while you shake. No one chastises you for it.

Maybe they ought to.

You can’t linger too long these days. Camping costs money. Not as much as sleeping in town, but chocobo rentals and food runs do add up. You need to hunt again.

“How about one of those grenades?” Gladio yells over to you at one point, fending off two sabertusks at once.

You pull one out and nearly drop it on the ground immediately. You toss it where Ignis directs, swallowing back nausea. You’re able to take a few more potshots after that, but the others do most of the work ending the hunt.

You find yourself, again, with your things scattered in front of you at a haven. You’ve emptied your entire extra arsenal on the ground. The machinery towers over the rifles and grenades and bazookas. You feel sick in their shadows.

Noct shows up at some point during your sad little reverie. His gaze flicks from weapon to weapon (you included) and he seems to understand more than you want him to.

“This is weird,” Noct lifts the single audax blade you have from the collection and struggles to unfold it. “How doesn’t it break when you hit anything? It has a hinge.”

“Magic,” you take the blade from Noct, reverse your grip, and flick your wrist. A remembered motion. The blade snaps out to length and shudders to life in your hands, emitting its sickly daemonic glow. “Don’t use… like sword. More like Glass. You know? Knives. Daggers. For… stopping. Stopping person. Guns for ending. Audax for stopping.”

“Disabling?” Noct suggests. He reaches toward the blade again. “Can I try?”

You offer the hilt to Noct. It dies the minute it leaves your fingers, the glow disperses. He holds it, shakes it a moment, as if he can make it turn back on by force of will alone.

“Sorry,” you hate everything about what that must mean. “MT only? Maybe. Now just… stick. No light. No blade.”

Noct manages to fold the blade back up and sets it down on the ground. “You aren’t an MT.”

“Okay.”

“I mean it,” Noct picks up a sagitta and inspects it, keeping the barrel pointed either at the ground or the sky. “Being able to use this stuff is cool. It’s a help to us. If we’re ever stuck somewhere with Niffs and my magic takes a shit, you can get us out guns blazing. That’s cool.”

“Sure. Doesn’t make me… not MT. He fur.”

“Hee foo-er?” Noct clumsily copies your Gralean, the pronunciation dismal. After another cursory glance at the rifle he dismisses it into his armory for himself.  “What does that mean?”

“Like you,” you wave a hand to Noct’s entire being. “Can’t...uh. Person. A person. MTs are not. MTs are… owhunkenfur. Metal soldier. Or immarkenfur. Fake soldier. Not person.”

A flash of purple. A rustle of fabric. Noct’s voice quivers. “You are a person, don’t even  _say_  something like that. You think you’re not?”

“No. Yes. Some days. Bad days. You know,” you pick at your wristband. “Didn't have many after I stopped...knowing. Remembering. But I tried to… end code. Get code off. Even when I didn’t know.”

“...Is that what those scars were?”

“Yes,” your hand clenches over the leather. Your worst memories always taste of metal.

“When? Did I know you? Shit, Prompto. Were you doing that when I  _knew you_?”

You have a feeling a lie won’t cut it here. Noct has pretty much dragged all your secrets into the open. What’s one more?

“Yes. When… school. Sixteen. Code never left so I stopped.”

You don’t mention that you only stopped about a week before you started training with the Crownsguard.

Noct pulls you in close, unexpectedly. Back in Insomnia, he never was the one to initiate much contact. Once Insomnia fell, that turned around little by little. You let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding and melt into his touch.

“I’m sorry, Prompto,” Noct whispers into your shoulder. “If I knew where you were from… or if I ever saw the tattoo… I would have made sure you  _knew_  that you were okay. I read some of the reports once. I didn’t sleep. One of those files could have been you…”

“It’s fine,” you squeeze Noct’s shoulders twice, and part. “I’m fine. You want...see more? More Niff stuff? I have...a lot.”

You pick up a flare grenade and waggle it in Noct’s direction. You smell the burning flesh of the unit made to demonstrate weapon misuse. You push it away. “Not good as you. You...fire bottle. But...if no magic? Works. You have seen.”

“How does it work?” Noct takes the boxy grenade gingerly, as if one wrong move will detonate it. You turn it over in his hands and try to ignore the stench lingering in your mind. Unit 06753235 was stupid. Noct is not stupid.

You point out a small square panel along the surface. The outline is slightly raised. “Take out this...using fingers. Finger ends. Pianshi. You know?” You tap a knuckle against the panel. You remember the Lucian word. “Fingernails! You take out the panel with those. There’s a button under. You press it, then...time goes. Ten time. Ten...tick. Clock tick. Ten of those. Or when grenade hits something.”

Noctis nods solemnly. “Pry out the panel with my fingernails, then throw it _really fast_.”

“Yes,” you smile. “Easy. Easier than magic? Could never...do it. Not like Glass.”

“Iggy’s been practicing since he first got to use magic. He does it better than I do, you know. It makes me tired. Most things do, but elemancy takes it outta me. He throws around spells like candy at a parade,” Noct hands the grenade back to you. “One of those holiday ones, I mean. Not a military one. Those sucked. No candy, just a big measuring contest. Every year I was waiting for one of the commanders to whip it out. Never happened.”

The absurdity of that picture comes to you in waves. Before you know it, you’re bent over laughing. “Everyone stop the parade… big announcement! It’s important! But… turns out… very very...behe announcement.”

“Behe?” Noct covers his grin with a hand.

You hold your fingertips close. “Behe.”

“Tiny!”

“Yeah!”

Things are suddenly okay for a while. You don’t always get the sleep you would like, or the food you need, but your friends help. Words are easier some days. Sometimes it’s less “one step forward two steps back” and more “one step forward two thousand steps back.”

But...you’re getting better and that counts for something.

**Author's Note:**

> And there it is.  
> As close to an ending as this thing has for the foreseeable future.  
> UPDATE: Getting feedback on this definitely made me want to write more. I'm kinda reinvigorated honestly. I have some ideas for where I want this to go so a sequel is definitely gonna happen sometime!  
> 05/12/18 EDIT: Fixed some typos and added translations in end notes. The body of this fic remains unchanged. I am my own beta so if you find anything wrong lemme know.
> 
> TRANSLATIONS:  
> "Lo" I / My / Me  
> "Lo febwoom ak..." I'm trying to talk  
> "Gawoom" Help  
> "Vo sin het" If you want (If you would like)  
> "Sru" Allow / Let (as in "let me")  
> "Hwai" Yes  
> "Ki fur" One person  
> "Lo ik Lucis" I'm from Lucis  
> "Nyo" No  
> "Lo buyip" My fault  
> "Im akwoom" Can't speak / Didn't speak  
> "Sin pae" You are safe  
> "Sin do nyosham bumit" You did nothing wrong  
> "Akori vas on" Tell (implied "me") what happened  
> "He yishionfur. Kenfur. Kenwoom." The woman. Soldier. Attacked.  
> "Yi" She  
> "Onmoor" Death / To die  
> "Lym" Formal / Official  
> "Kenwoom lo" Attacked me  
> "Im Crownsguard" Not Crownsguard  
> "Opt Niff artonfur" Saw a Niff kid  
> "Ent sol" All day  
> "Ik Leide woom..." From Leide to...  
> "Dorowshick" Shield  
> "Woom" To  
> "Onmorshi" Kill  
> "Ent" All  
> "Prai" Respect  
> "Opt" See / Look (at)  
> "Dorwoom" Sleep  
> "Talumar" Inside  
> "Emp fu sih fu bin meg bin gen" 05953234 (Prompto's production number)  
> "Sru lo ikiwoom" Let me go  
> "Gintiki lo" [I've lost my notes for this one but I think it's something like "time for me to leave" but less formal]  
> "Lo het hunmoor im" I don't want to be decommissioned  
> "Lo het onmoor im" I don't want to die  
> "Owhunkenfur" MT [literally "metal soldier"]  
> "Pae" Safe  
> "Immarkenfur" MT [literally "fake soldier"]  
> "Hunmor" Decommision  
> "He fur" A person / A human  
> "Pianshi" Fingernail  
> "Behe" Tiny / Small  
>   
> Follow me on Twitter [@compromisedunit](https://mobile.twitter.com/compromisedunit)!


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